


i'm in love with my own sins

by lucifucker



Series: let's hear it for America's Suitehearts [2]
Category: Americas Suitehearts (music video), Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, americas suitehearts, and metaphors, gratuitous use of fall out boy lyrics, h/c kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 17:00:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2659601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucifucker/pseuds/lucifucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Benzedrine listens to his complaints, and flicks something invisible off of his shoulder.</p><p>“You can only blame your problems on the world for so long.” </p><p>or</p><p>the sequel to my other suithearts fic</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'm in love with my own sins

The water is the same color as Donnie's clothes, and he hates them. He hates that they're tight, and he hates that he can't run, and he hates that his shoes are shiny and black and made out of something that used to be alive.

 

Benzedrine listens to his complaints, and flicks something invisible off of his shoulder.

 

“You can only blame your problems on the world for so long.” He says dismissively, and Donnie wants to tackle him into the mud and get him as dirty as Donnie wishes he could be, but he doesn't.

 

Instead he gets up, and walks away, and doesn't look back to see if Benzedrine's watching him.

\--

There's something different, about Horseshoe's voice, something Donnie can't place, and Benzedrine calls it a lisp, but he doesn't say it the way he says most things about Horseshoe. When Benzedrine talks about Horseshoe, it's with disdain, for the grass stains on Horseshoe's knees, the length of his hair, the way he dresses and his lack of reverence for the world, but never, ever his voice.

 

Donnie comes back to the carousel one day, after the cameras have been asking Horseshoe about it, and finds them sitting together, with Benzedrine's arm wrapped around Horseshoe's shoulders, and Horseshoe's head in his hands.

 

They don't speak to each other, and Donnie wonders if sometimes words can't fix broken things, but they sit there, and Benzedrine slides his fingers into the mess of Horseshoe's hair and holds him close the way Donnie knows but does not remember his mother used to hold him.

 

They don't speak, after, and when Sandman gets there, with his eyes flashing lightning like redemption and his whole body conglomerated of fury, Benzedrine doesn't say anything to him, either.

 

He presses a kiss to Horseshoe's forehead, and stands up straight, again, back like a board as he strides toward Donnie, the picture of sophisticated grace.

 

As they turn away, Donnie watches Sandman wrap himself around Horseshoe, all long limbs and fingers and shadows that seem almost physical, and wonders what it's like to hold a broken thing in your hands.

 

–

 

Benzedrine comes to his room, and Donnie can't help but reach for him, pulling him down into the bed, his mouth finding Benzedrine's, hot, and harsh, and almost angry.

 

“I'd cast a spell over the west,” Benzedrine rasps into Donnie's mouth, every piece of decorum gone, every bit of composure forgotten as his fingertips slide down under the waistband of Donnie's pants. “To make you think of me the way I think of you.”

 

Donnie licks into Benzedrine's mouth and wonders if he knows he already does.

 

When he wakes up, he's alone.

 

–

 

“I have a name.” Benzedrine says, and Donnie looks up, sees the way the light frames him, the slope of his shoulders and the droop of his head. Benzedrine doesn't look at him, but Donnie feels like he's being watched, all the same.

 

“What is it?” He asks, and Benzedrine takes a few more steps, sitting down on the edge of the caurosel next to Donnie, careful not to touch him.

 

“Patrick.” It sounds different, comfortable, like Donnie's heard it a thousand times, but he can't have. He nods.

 

“Do I have one?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“What is it?” Benzedrine--Patrick-- shakes his head.

 

“I don't remember.”

 

“How do you know yours?” Patrick is quiet, looking down at the floor, and after a moment, Donnie knows.

 

Sandman.

 

“Will he tell me, too?” He asks, and Patrick shrugs, letting his arm press against Donnie's, just for a second, before he straightens back up.

 

“My friends all lie, and say they only want the best wishes for me.” He says brusquely, like it doesn't matter, like he doesn't _care_ , and Donnie wonders if, if Patrick wants for long enough, it'll be true.

 

He walks out of Donnie's room, and the space where he was, before, feels cold.

 

–

 

Donnie asks Sandman if he's hurting, and Sandman laughs.

 

“Oh, hell, yes.” He says, and there's a rough edge to his words that cuts into Donnie like a knife. “I'm a nervous wreck.”

 

“Who am I?” Donnie asks, and Sandman sobers, his wide mouth going flat. He reaches out, and wraps one long, jagged arm around Donnie's shoulders, poking into Donnie where it sits.

 

“Baby, you're a classic.” Sandman's voice is like gravel and silk and soft but rough things and it lilts like music, but not at all like music. “But I can't tell you.”

 

Horseshoe is across the room, rolling the dice, over and over, calling the number before it comes up. He's right, every time.

 

“Will you tell him?” Donnie asks, and Sandman shakes his head, slowly.

 

“I swear, I'd burn this city down to show him the light.” It's soft, and gentle, and Donnie's glad that Sandman can be gentle with Horseshoe. “But I can't.”

 

Donnie wonders if there's a difference between 'can't' and 'won't'.

 

–

“ _You_ said you'd always be there. _You_ said you'd never leave.” Patrick roars at Sandman, and Sandman doesn't yell back, but there are shadows creeping out from under his fingers and his boots. Jerking his head toward Horseshoe, Patrick takes a step closer, and his shoulders are stiff. “Say my name and his in the same breath. I dare you to say they taste the same.”

 

Sandman looks up, and his eyes glow with something that's halfway between fire and ice.

 

Donnie doesn't move, and Horseshoe stays crouched in the corner, and Sandman stalks toward Patrick like Donnie thinks lions stalk their prey.

 

“His tastes like yours.” Sandman coos, sweet like molasses, but his hair is standing on end, and the darkness at the edges of the room is creeping in toward them. “Only...sweeter.”

 

Patrick looks up at Sandman for a long moment, and Donnie wonders if this is how it ends, if this is how the _world_ ends, but it doesn't.

 

Patrick's shoulders slump, and he shifts forward, resting his forehead against the sharp jut of Sandman's shoulder, and Sandman's fingers curl around his arm, black gloves a stark contrast to the bright yellow of Patrick's jacket.

 

“Best friends?” Patrick asks, and Sandman nods, and Donnie wishes he understood what was happening.

 

“Ex-friends, till the end.” Sandman whispers back, and Donnie gives up, walking over to Horseshoe and crouching down next to him. Horseshoe's head is bowed, and his fingers shake when Donnie takes them.

 

Donnie wonders if some things are better left unknown.

 

–

 

Patrick sits next to Horseshoe at the top of the hill, and Donnie can't hear what they're saying.

 

But Patrick puts one hand on Horseshoe's shoulder, and nods, slowly, and Horseshoe doesn't shrink away, like he usually does.

 

The next morning, Sandy and Horseshoe are gone, and when Donnie looks down at the water, there are sequins floating in it, and a little red had washes up on shore.

 

Donnie cleans it off, and throws his own into the river, placing it on his head.

 

His hat sinks down into the viscous, green liquid, and when he gets back to the carousel, Patrick doesn't yell at him for wearing clashing colors.

 

His jacket is folded up, draped over one of the horses, and his sleeves are rolled to his elbows as he sits on the edge, writing in a notebook Donnie's never seen before.

 

Donnie wonders if this is how Patrick is supposed to be.

 

–

 

Donnie falls asleep in Patrick's arms, with his head on his chest, and Patrick's lips in his hair, and notices but doesn't notice that his makeup is gone.

 

He dreams that he's a president, and a hockey player, and a steel magnate, and an artist who only paints cans, and wakes up with a name on his lips.

 

“Patrick.” He hisses, and shakes him a little, pushing himself up on his elbows. “ _Patrick_.”

 

Patrick's eyes snap open, and Donnie looks down at him, feeling the anticipation build up in his chest.

 

“I remember.” Patrick's arms shift, hands sliding over Donnie's sides, up into his hair, and he tugs until Donnie leans down, and lets him kiss him, long, and slow, and deep.

 

“We can go home, now.” Patrick whispers, when they break apart and Donnie shakes his head.

 

“I don't want to go.” Patrick's quiet, for a moment, and then kisses him again, like sunsets, and fluttering wings, and summer nights. “I need to keep you like this in my mind.”

 

“Give in, or just give up.” Patrick says, and Donnie lies back down.

 

He doesn't dream again.

 

–

 

The water is the same color as Andy's clothes, and when he wades out into it, it looks like he disappears into the river, like it's consuming him.

 

Patrick's fingers are tight in his, and when he stops, Patrick does, too, standing by his side, pressing close.

 

“I don't want to forget how your voice sounds.” He manages, and Patrick shakes his head, leans forward and kisses Andy's cheek.

 

“I'm a loose bolt of a complete machine.” He murmurs, and squeezes Andy's hand, tugging him gently forward.

 

They take the plunge, together.

 

 


End file.
